


You were supposed to be different

by Banashee



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [5]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bullying, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Fights, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Clint Barton, Insecurity, Lack of Communication, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23856412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: Part 5 of my "Bad Things Happen Bingo".Prompt: Bullying.Sometimes it's the people who always had your back that can hurt you the most. Clint finds that out for himself, and while he's dealing with various mental health related and other issues, he also needs to figure out if he's even wanted around anymore.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Clint Barton, Clint Barton & Avengers Team, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701046
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	You were supposed to be different

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> so, because I love a good writing challenge, I'm now taking a part in the Bad Things Happen Bingo.  
> https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/  
> Please mind the tags!
> 
> I'm cross-posting this to my tumblr, https://banashee.tumblr.com
> 
> This is my fifth square: "Bullying".  
> Please check the end notes for trigger warnings - might be spoiler-y but please check them out if you're unsure since this story contains a lot more than "just" bullying.

****

**You were supposed to be different**

“Jesus, Clint. You’re a mess.”

Clint doesn’t say anything, staring ahead and grinding his teeth. Once upon a time, he would have laughed along or thrown some sort of insult back. Now, though, it would cost too much energy - energy that he doesn’t have and didn’t have in months. 

A shake of head, a short laugh. They turn around - Clint wants to throw up, break something, scream, cry and sleep for three days straight, all at the same time. He doesn’t though - all he can do is stare ahead and wondering when exactly his team started to hate him so much.

  
  


The thing is - his new medications knock him the fuck out.

To be fair, he’s always been a bit of a disaster, and his therapist would very much like for him to acknowledge this as the symptoms of his PTSD, Depression and Anxiety that they are, but it's still a work in progress. It doesn’t help that there is constantly new stuff that piles up on him, and it sends him into a tailspin on a regular basis - so he’d gotten new meds, because the old combo simply didn’t help anymore. 

The thing about the pills knocking him out though? Yeah. 

Clint has a hard time staying awake and alert, keeping his brain focused. He _tries,_ but trying simply isn’t enough when his brain keeps fucking him over. 

Today, he fell asleep in a meeting about a upcoming mission, much to everyone’s displeasure or amusement, depending on who you would ask. 

Clint leaves the room as soon as possible, not looking back and not talking to anyone. He’s feeling sick to his stomach but otherwise empty - how he even makes it back home to his apartment in Brooklyn, he couldn’t tell. But as soon as he closes the door behind him, he shuffles off to the couch, shoulders hunched and head hanging low. He barely just makes it to the couch and falls asleep for hours, but when he wakes up again, it’s like he didn’t sleep at all in the first place. Then he checks his phone and there are 5 missed calls from Steve.

Clint calls back, and the Captain is not amused. 

He doesn’t mean to fuck up, and yet he keeps doing just that. He doesn’t know how to stop.

He doesn't know how to keep going, either. 

Clint is used to being the "weak link" of the group - it's kind of obvious, seeing as he's one of the few entirely human members of the Avengers, especially since he doesn't have any armor or robot technology or anything besides his (admittedly high tech) bow and arrows and a few knives strapped to his person. He's not enchanted in any way, shape or form but he's fucking good at his job - it's why he's here in the first place. 

And although the jokes have always been there, they seem to have gotten more frequent. Maybe he's just imagining it, but they seem to have gotten more malicious, too. Clint is not entirely sure if that is true, but it sure feels like it. Maybe it's just his brain going crazy, or maybe they really do think less of him these days - he sure as hell won't ask. He already is the butt of jokes on a regular basis and he's used to that, too, since he's been in that position for most of his life in a number of different circumstances but - 

It hurts. It hurts to be mocked and laughed at all the time. 

Clint used to laugh it off, laughing along just to cope and cover up the fact that the jokes stung deep inside even when that wasn't the intention. 

Now? He wouldn't be able to tell and he doesn't laugh anymore. 

Annoying. A mess. They call him these things on a regular basis, jokingly or not, he's no longer able to see a difference. 

Useless, waste of space - that's what he calls himself in the privacy of his own head because he wouldn't be able to see if there is even a distinction between those words anymore. It still hurts to hear it out loud, especially when they're no longer joking. 

"For fucks sake, could you maybe be any more annoying?!" 

It's early in the day and he didn't sleep at all that night. He's out of it, forgot to take his medication this morning - the restless tapping and twitching of his leg drives Tony insane and he's glaring at him. He's not in a great mood to begin with, easily annoyed and way more snappish than usual. 

"I can try." Clint answers, no heat and no passion at all behind the statement. It sounds hollow in his own ears, and he really really wants to sleep - sleep is easier than dealing with life right now. But that's not possible. They need to talk through more details of a mission and it takes hours until they're done. 

Clint attempts to stay focused and pay attention, he really does, but he finds himself unable to make any sense of the words that might as well be gibberish strung together, and his eyes fixate on a spot on the table.

When he leaves later, dead on his feet and with a pounding headache, he doesn't react when someone is calling his name after him - all he wants is to go home and sleep, but once he's there the air leaves his lungs, and he's panicking and _why does he always have to fuck everything up?_

Clint curls up in the corner of the couch for hours, hands fisted into his hair and tears soaking through the sleeves of his hoodie. 

A low whine and the feeling of a cold, wet nose nuzzling at him slowly pull him back to reality, and when he looks up again, Lucky is sitting in front of him, plastered to his shaking form. The dog is warm and alive and breathing, and Clint reaches out to run a hand through his fur. Which Lucky takes as an invitation to get closer, climbing on top of his human and affectionately licking his face. 

Clint wraps both arms around the mutt, which he patiently allows him to do, and with the feeling of soft fur and a steady heartbeat pressed against his cheek, he's slowly coming back to himself. 

When he makes his way to the bathroom later, to take his medication he realizes that he missed the dose this morning - cursing, he makes a mental note to pay more attention but even in the privacy of his own mind it's laughable. 

But he makes an effort to remember in the upcoming days, and the pills make him tired and sluggish - at least he can't blow his brains out when he's constantly asleep, so, progress? 

Except then he completely fucks up in the field. 

He's exhausted despite sleeping all the time, and his reaction time suffers - a lot. Clint is way too slow, missing important cues and then he misses his target. He completely misses a target for the first time in over a decade and the last time he did, he'd been shot and bleeding profusely so at least he'd had an excuse then. He doesn't have one now and he never tells anyone about the change in medication and how it makes him entirely useless - there are enough snide comments thrown his way already and Clint really doesn't feel like reminding the others of the fact that he's completely fucked. At this point, he is convinced he'll lose his spot on the team and that can't happen. He won't allow it - he just needs to keep it together.

The debrief is short, but it's very clear that his fuck up didn't go unnoticed - when he's asked to explain, he almost chokes on his words and doesn't do anything to defend himself. All he says is he'll do better next time, and the look he gets in response is silent but he can practically hear the "You better." that may or may not be hidden in it. 

They're all disappointed, and rightfully so. 

When he's able to leave, Clint can't make it out of the tower in time - he can't breathe and his brain screams _panic panic panic_ and it's all he can do to duck into the nearest bathroom and throw the door of a stall closed behind him without locking it before he crumbles to the floor, shaking violently and falling apart. 

He comes around to a calm voice talking to him and a warm, gentle hand carefully touching his arm. When he looks up, eyes red and nose stuffy, head pounding with a dehydration headache, he realizes that Bruce is sitting cross legged on the floor in front of him, looking concerned. Clint has got no idea when he even got here and how much he saw but he figures it's enough - shame sits hot in his chest and he looks back down again, attempting to calm down. 

"Hey. You with me?" Bruce asks, and he's still calm, still gentle. Clint nods, mutely. He doesn't trust his voice yet.

The scientist nudges his forearm with a cool water bottle. 

"Here, drink this."

He takes it, opening it with shaking hands and does as he's told. Bruce stays close the entire time. 

"Do you wanna talk?" he asks carefully, but Clint shakes his head no. He really doesn't want to. 

"Just a bad day." he forces out, and it doesn't sound like his usual self at all - his voice is cracking, rough and exhausted. 

Bruce just nods, keeping quiet for a little while and his hand remains where it is, slowly rubbing small circles on Clints arm. The contact feels nice - it's soothing, helps him breathe a little bit easier. 

"The offer still stands, you know. If you ever need anything." Bruce offers when he manages to get up from the floor a little while later, walking to the door. He nods, gratefully. 

"Thanks, Bruce. See you around." 

"See you around."

Clint leaves the building with his shades on to hide himself away and walking as fast as he can manage in his current state - when he finally makes it home, he crawls straight to bed, thinking back on the day. 

The fuck up in the field and the meeting that followed leave him nauseous with guilt and shame, but it's Bruce's kindness afterwards that really gets to him. 

He didn't expect it, and he keeps telling himself that he doesn't deserve it, especially after almost causing the death of civilians that day. It leaves him wrecked, sobbing violently until he falls asleep from sheer exhaustion, clawing at drenched bedsheets and with Lucky pressing close to him in an attempt to comfort. 

The next day, he only takes half a dose of medication - he needs to get it together, needs to stay focused. 

He keeps going like this for weeks and at first, he experiences a high that makes him hopeful that he made the right decision - it leaves him ecstatic even, and he manages to do one hell of a lot better on missions than he did before. Even the comments about him being an annoying mess die down, and he desperately wants it to stay that way. 

Part of him wants to book it under success, but the other, much more logical part of him remains suspicious of how this stunt is going to turn out in the long run. 

It's his hopeful part that wins over and keeps him going like that - until he crashes. 

He's not 100% sure if the crash of brain chemicals would have happened so soon if it wasn't for everything going to shit. 

When Clint goes to bed that night, everything seems normal. He's relatively okay (whatever counts as okay for him these days), and Lucky is happily snuggled up on the covers by his feet, perfectly healthy, or so he would have thought since there was no reason to think otherwise. 

Except, when Clint wakes up in the middle of the night because he feels like something is incredibly wrong, Lucky is cold and unmoving at the end of the bed. 

Lucky was old, and when he thinks about it, Clint would have thought it a good thing that he peacefully fell asleep instead of having to suffer. 

But it catches him so completely off guard, and he's beyond devastated over losing his beloved dog, that it sends him into a downward spiral quicker than ever before. 

Clint doesn't leave the apartment. He doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, and doesn't do anything besides getting up to use the bathroom. 

He keeps half dosing or some days, even completely forgetting his medication. It quickly catches up to him, and in addition to the pain and grief over the loss of his best friend, his brain completely fucks him over now. 

If he wasn't so goddamn tired he would have seriously hurt himself. As it is, he can't even do anything about that, even when his thoughts keep circling around sharp knives and quick bullets that would get the job done. 

He thinks about it for days on end and it hurts, to be in so much pain and being unable to stop it. 

He doesn't call or talk to anyone. 

The team is all he's got and he loves them all, but in the last few months he didn't tell them anything personal anymore, too afraid to be mocked or made fun of. 

He couldn't cope if that was to happen now and he doesn't want to annoy them any further as it is - if he loses his team (and he carefully, very carefully doesn't think the word "friends" because he doesn't know if that's even what they are these days) he would lose everything he's still got. 

Curled up in bed, apathetic and not caring that he's been able to smell himself for at least two days, the vibrations of his phone travel through the soft mattress that's still damp from sweat, tears and snot and it causes Clint to lift his head, tiredly blinking at it before he reaches out. 

He's got a text. 

_"Movie night and dinner at the tower tonight at 7. You coming?"_

Clint seriously needs to think about that. 

Part of him wants to stay here and not deal with anything anymore, too tired to even bathe or take care of himself. 

Another part of him longs for human interaction and maybe, hopefully, a bit of physical contact. He doesn't remember the last time he's been hugged by anyone - it's been too long, and the thought makes his chest hurt all over again. 

_“You don't deserve it.”_ and _"Why would anyone want to be close to a useless piece of shit like you?"_

Clint ends up not answering the text and not doing anything at all, really. He attempts to sleep, for however long he can manage to. His phone vibrates another two or three times with messages, but he ignores those, too. 

So he remains home alone, miserable and unable to reach out for any help.

Some time later he's got a small burst of energy - he takes advantage of it to get in the shower, because he's feeling truly disgusting right now. 

While the warm water is working its wonders on his sore and stiff muscles, he can feel his stomach growl painfully. Clint doesn't know the last time he ate something, but faintly remembers that he might have some cereal left. 

He pours a bit of it into a bowl and picks at it, eating them dry. It's like chewing on cardboard, and he stops soon, too turned off by it to keep trying. 

He remains hungry though, but doesn't trust himself with more than a bottle of water. 

It's at least a little bit of relief. 

Staring ahead at the wall in front of him, Clint zones out. He's got no idea if it's minutes or hours, but he's pulled out of it with the ringing of his landline. 

This phone is ancient, heavy and loud, attached to the wall with a cord. He barely ever gets calls there, so he walks over, very slowly and adjusting his hearing aids on the way. Then he picks up and greets whoever is calling with a flat and emotionless 

"What." 

The voice that answers him is very much familiar. 

"Hey, it's Bruce. I was going to ask if you're okay? It's just, uh, we haven't seen you in a while and you never answered any of the texts…" 

Clint opens and closes his mouth a few times. He doesn't even know how much time went by since the text messages. 

"Uh. Sorry?" He's not entirely sure how to answer - besides, he doesn't really feel like talking about any of this. 

Bruce takes a moment to reply. It's obvious that he's worried, but not wanting to push too far. 

"Are you okay, Clint? To be honest, you've been kinda off for a while and I'm worried about you." 

The mean voices in the back of his head wake up. They sneer and laugh and gloat, 

_"It's a lie, no one cares about you"_ and _"Why would anyone want you around?"_ they say, and Clint can feel the phone shake in his hand. 

"I'm -" he starts, but then thinks better of it and cuts himself off, plastering a fake smile on his face in an attempt to imitate a cheerful tone of voice when he lies, 

"I'm fine." 

It doesn't sound convincing at all, not even in his own ears. And it doesn't seem convince Bruce, either, because he hums, and then pauses, clearly assessing how to react best. Finally, he settles on, 

"If you'd like to, we're all meeting up again for dinner and movies tonight."

Clint wants to decline - but then, he still agrees. It might be easier than ignoring everyone forever. 

"See you later." he tells Bruce and then he's quickly hanging up without waiting for an answer. 

As soon as Clint hangs up, he already regrets that he said he’ll come, but calling back now and telling Bruce he won’t be there kinda feels like a giant dick move - especially since he’s got no hard feelings towards him, seeing as he’s been the only person to never make any snide comments or fun of him at all. Maybe it’ll be nice, still.

He just needs to get a grip and not give them a reason to say anything - he can do this.

Part of him wants to call Natasha and talk to her - the last time they spoke had been almost 2 months ago, and she’d asked him not to call after this conversation unless she calls first - there is no ill intent, Clint knows, it’s just that Nat is in a deep cover operation right now and any outside contact could screw it up or endanger lives if things go wrong. 

He knows the drill and doesn’t risk it, but the urge is still there - he misses his best friend. Always does when they’re apart for long, but especially now, he’d love to hear her voice, just for a short moment. 

By the time Clint actually makes it out of his apartment and into the subway, he’s exhausted again. He is glad that he always keeps a go-bag ready, so at least he doesn’t have to pack anything. He’s traveling with it, just in case he’ll be too worn out to make it back to Bed Stuy that night, which is likely - that way, he can just crash in his quarters in the tower. Clint hasn’t really been there since - well, he hasn’t stayed there in a while.

About an hour later, he enters the tower and gets into the private elevator, tiredly returning JARVIS greeting as he rides up to the top of the building. 

Now is the first time he actually looks at himself in a while - the glass walls around him are mirrored on the inside, Clint looks at his reflection no matter where he turns - he might have showered that day, but he looks awful. 

He’s visibly lost weight, hair a mess and too long. His face is pale and with an unkempt beard that he didn’t even bother taking care of. His usually bright blue eyes are dark, empty and filled with a dull sadness. 

The hug he gets upon entering the common room is entirely unexpected, and Clint barely manages to suppress a flinch at the sudden contact. He forces a smile on his face and clasps one hand on Thor’s back as he releases him again.

“Hey guys.”

“Hi Clint!” various forms of greetings are called back over the room, and Clint waves quickly before making his way to the couch, grabbing a drink on the way there. He can feel the nervousness creeping up into his throat, which is stupid - this is the team, people he’s known and been close to for years. 

Or at least that’s how things have been once upon a time - now, he’s not so sure anymore.

Unsure if it is his imagination or not, Clint avoids looking any of them in the eye, but he is pretty certain he can feel them looking at him oddly.

Especially Bruce - he’s the only one he _really_ talked to on occasion in the last few weeks, and he’s been concerned even then. Now, he looks at him and there is a mixture of worry and sadness in his dark eyes. 

“How have you been? We haven’t seen you in a while.”

Clint works his jaw, clenching it for a moment before he answers,

“‘m fine. Same as always.”

It’s a blatant lie, but he wants to avoid any confrontation if he can - he’s exhausted, and if anything happens tonight, he won’t be able to keep a lid on it all and then everything will go to shit - even more so than it usually does. 

Clint’s brain is foggy, and he isn’t entirely sure how to act. Being here is weird, feels right and wrong at the same time. Like being in a place he would have called “home” without hesitation, but now 

he feels like he doesn’t belong here anymore. It’s strange, and it hurts.

But Clint manages to dodge and ignore the questions about his well being, keeping his face carefully closed off. 

It works until dinner - Clint is attempting to choke down just enough pizza so it won’t look suspicious, but it tastes like he’s eating the box instead of it’s contents. He’s eating slowly, nausea rising and after not even a whole slice his stomach is revolting and he puts the food back down. Hopefully no one will notice - but they do.

It’s Tony who calls him out on it.

“Is everything okay? No offense but you really don’t look too great right now.”

He means well, and the question is genuine - but for Clint, it’s one more step towards his breaking point.

For _years_ he’s had to listen to various degrees of quips and comments about his person and his mental health. For too long, he’s had to pretend to be okay with it and for too long, it had all gone too far.

 _“Their concern isn’t real”_ the voice in his brain keeps whispering, louder and louder until it’s no longer a murmur and more of a shout inside of his head.

Clint knows how this goes - he’s lived through it before, years before he ever met any of the people currently around him. 

Decades ago, in the orphanage or after, in the circus, they had loved that little joke - pretending to care, pretending to comfort - only to laugh and pull away as soon as he’d been pushed too far, too desperate for any human warmth to the point where he actually tried to reach out, faintly hoping, even though he knew better, knew they’d use it against him.

Those times are supposed be over, this team is supposed to be _different_ \- but it seems like he’s been wrong about that, too.

Clint remains silent, holding back anything that might slip from him.

But then Steve turns over, looking straight at him and just as concerned as he says, 

“You know you can talk to us, right?” 

That is when Clint explodes.

He whips around, glaring, and then he can no longer stop the words that just keep flowing out of his mouth.

“What, so all of you can mock that too, have a good old laugh about me?! Oh, haha, look at Clint, so annoying, such a mess, what a useless waste of space! So funny, I can’t fucking breathe!” 

Roughly, he shoves the box of pizza away from him and pulls himself up from the couch, pacing the room - his outbreak leaves Tony, Bruce, Steve and Thor in shocked silence, and he continues, because he just can’t stop himself anymore. 

“Listen, I know it’s true and I’m doing my best here, I really am, but this shit needs to stop. I’m done. I absolutely fucking can’t right now, my brain’s a mess with the new fucking medication and there’s always something - I just - so if you want me off the team just tell me, but _please_ just stop it, I can’t- Fuck!”

Words keep stumbling over each other, and Clint is breathing hard, trying his damndest to keep it together and not panic, but it gets harder and harder, up until the point where he’s almost hyperventilating, shaking and needing to sit back down - he makes it to a chair several feet away from the others, subconsciously keeping his distance and keeping his head down, eyes locked on his knees and then squeezed shut in an attempt to stop himself from tearing up.

He fucked up, more than usual, and they’re all going to hate him for this, and- it isn’t supposed to go that way. But he’s said it all because he just can’t keep his mouth shut for any longer, and now he’s ruined the night for everyone including himself - he should have stayed home.

But no one and nothing even waits there for him anymore now that Lucky is gone - the pain in his chest is almost unbearable, keeps him from breathing right. 

The world around Clint seems to be far away and blurry, and he doesn’t register anything anymore, shaking apart and choking on fear. 

He doesn’t realize that people are talking - to him, which is useless right now, and about him, debating if medical help is needed, and they settle for the best option they have right now, which is letting Bruce take over.

Bruce is close to him but not touching, calmly talking and trying to get Clint to breathe with him. It takes a while, but he does, still looking down because he’s too ashamed to look up and look at any of them. He can’t even tell if anyone else is even still in the room - it’s oddly quiet now, and it might be entirely possible that they left. Clint doesn’t find it in him to care - he focuses on breathing and tunes out the rest.

Some time later, he is not in the living room anymore - he’s in his quarters, faintly realizing that Bruce brought him there and remained close the whole time. Now, that there is a bit of privacy, Clint feels more secure to let go. 

He’s warm and safe here, door closed and the only person in the apartment with him is Bruce, who has both arms wrapped around him now, patient and gentle as always and he manages to talk him down from the panic.

When Clint finally manages to stop shaking and gets a grip back on himself, he ends up telling Bruce everything - now that all the things he already blurted out in anger are out in the open, he might as well try and sort it out or at least get the rest of it off of his chest.

He tells him about the struggle he’s had for years, how he just laughed it off and laughed along with jokes that actually hurt because that has been so much easier than speaking up and actually asking for help.

He tells him how the quips and comments have started to get to him more and more, and how lately, everything just piled up to the point where is no longer sure if he’s even wanted around anymore.

He tells Bruce how his brain is completely fucking him over, hence the new medication and the issues with them that lead to the current clusterfuck that is his life. 

He’s telling him about how he started to leave out doses of said medication, just so he wouldn’t fuck up even more.

Clint talks about losing Lucky all of the sudden, talks about loneliness and wanting to end it because at this point, he figures he might as well - he’s exhausted to keep it together and keep to himself, despite the fear of getting mocked and made fun of. 

But Bruce doesn’t do any of this - he simply remains by his side, listening and waiting for the worst of the storm to pass while Clint is holding onto him - it’s been to long since he’s been able to be this close to someone, and he completely soaks up the gentle contact, equally grateful for the support and being ashamed of being so vulnerable in front of another person. 

“I’m sorry that you’re hurting, and I’m sorry that we contributed to it. That we didn’t realize what was going on in the first place.”

Bruce is telling him quietly, and Clint remains completely silent, merely hugging him closer for a moment in acknowledgement. 

“But I can promise you, no one wants you off of the team - that was never even an option, even when I understand why it must have felt that way.”

It feels good, to hear this out loud. Clint isn’t entirely sure if he can believe it, but he can’t deny that hearing this takes a little bit of the weight off of his shoulders. 

In the upcoming days and weeks, they talk - they talk a lot, and it’s awkward, difficult and draining but it is necessary. Not only to solve the pile of issues and rescue the team, but more importantly, to save their friendship and so they can open up the communication between all of them. 

Everyone wants to avoid a situation like this in the future at all costs - so they talk. It feels good, despite everything.

On the day right after it all comes to the light, Clint finds himself sought out by Tony, Steve and Thor, all of them shuffling to his quarters, silent and bashful, which is unusual for all of them. They’re apologizing profusely - none of them have realized what has been happening, and it’s a small comfort that, while their behavior has been hurtful, they’re not malicious, just oblivious - and they’re ashamed of themselves. 

All of them should know better than to be so careless with their words.

The talk takes up most of their day, and as difficult as this is, Clint is glad that they know now - that the people around him are just as flawed as he is, but that they’re still a team, still sticking together.

All of them agree that they have to work on talking more instead of deflecting and laughing when it would be much more beneficial for all of them to just _say_ something. 

Over the following months, Clint finds that he is learning to trust his friends again and he’s not entirely sure when exactly that stopped. But he realizes now, just how much insecurities and old trauma his own brain had thrown into the mix - it’s a mess to sort out, but he manages it somehow, with the help of his friends. 

Now that they know about the various issues that he’s dealing with, he’s actually spending a lot more time at the tower again. There is company and support here at all times, which Clint finds helps tremendously - he’s so used to keeping everything to himself, so used to not be able to share his struggles, he forgot how good it can feel to just let go and be held up until he can stand on his own again.

All of them, but especially Bruce urges him to stop messing with the anti depressants, urging him to take the prescribed amounts of them to level out and get better. 

“If that means you won’t be able to go into the field as much then so be it. You need to take care of yourself before you can help anyone else.”

It’s a sentiment often repeated, and Clint finds that he’s not annoyed or pissed off at it like he thought he would - because he knows that this shows how much they really care about him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s felt that way and while it makes him sad that things had to go so incredibly wrong first in order to find this again, he’s glad that they’re at this point at all. 

Knowing that the team really does have his back is the biggest relief of it all.

His therapist is happy with the progress he’s making once the additional stress factors have died down and he is able to deal with his mental health issues, as well as the grief over the loss of his best friend on four legs. It’s not an easy time by any means, but he gets through it.

The day Natasha finally returns from her deep cover mission, almost 7 months have passed and she arrives in the common area of the tower just in time for a late night snack and to be tackled into a bear hug by Clint - she drops her bag to the floor and hugs him just as tight, glad to be finally back home. 

Clint didn’t know when she would return, and is beyond happy to see her again - it’s been too long, and he only lets go of Nat when her stomach rumbles in protest of being empty for too long, which is when he pulls her along to the couch and makes a beeline to the kitchen to go and get food. 

They sit down together to eat, and when Natasha asks,

“So, how have things been over here?”

Clint just leans close for a moment, and settles on,

“It’s been a lot. Tell you later, okay?”

Natasha looks at her best friend, and even though he looks a lot better than he did a few months or even weeks ago when she hasn’t been around, she doesn’t miss the deepened worry lines on his face, the new gray hairs and the missing weight that he still hasn’t put back on. But the smile on his lips seems to be genuine, and the slight sparkle in his tired eyes looks real, too.

“Okay, later then. I love you.” she tells him, because it’s true and it feels like the right thing to say at the moment.

Clint pulls her close, immensely glad to have her back.

“I love you, too.”

They eat in silence, and one after one, the rest of the team joins them, sprawling along the furniture and chatting away. Some kind of movie is running on the giant TV, and finally, Clint feels like he really is home again. 

A place where he belongs.

  
  
*+~

Square: Bullying

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings:  
> \- Dealing with Depression and Anxiety, Mental Health Issues in general  
> \- unhealthy coping  
> \- self-medication ( I strongly advice against it and this story is in no way, shape or form meant to encourage anyone to do so! I am no mental health professional!)  
> \- Bullying  
> \- Loss of a pet (non-graphic)  
> \- Suicidal thoughts  
> \- Thoughts about self harm


End file.
